


I Pretend You're Mine (All the Damn Time)

by sweetdreamsaremadeoffish



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartenders, Cuties, F/F, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Games, Infidelity, Light Angst, Smut, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 17:08:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17248139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdreamsaremadeoffish/pseuds/sweetdreamsaremadeoffish
Summary: “And you might think that I did something so wrong, or that I AM wrong, but I don't see how I could be so wrong if what I did let me have you.”Judith Ford, 36 Questions





	1. oh damn, never seen that color blue

**Author's Note:**

> Many cheerful (and anxious) salutations.  
> I've admired the works and authors of this community for a few years now, and I'm equally excited and terrified to be joining your ranks with this first post.
> 
> Loosely based on the story of Taylor Swift’s “Delicate” (sorry), this piece is the first of many similarly rooted others which are set to populate my first series. Thanks to my beta angel.  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S.: The quote from in the summary is a line from the podcast musical “36 Questions”, starring Jessie Shelton and Jonathan Groff. Its music is on Spotify and Bandcamp, and the full three-act show is free on the Two Up Productions website. (I own neither it, nor Ghostbusters, but highly recommend checking out both.)

It's been far too long.

There's a gentle buzz beside her as the black of the bedroom melts under the soft blue glow of Erin’s phone, and her heart leaps into her throat. She slips across the sea of silken sheets as carefully as she can, snatching up the device like it's a lifeboat. Which, in a way, she supposes, it is. It's her ticket to safety, to salvation.

The message is just an address--somewhere on the Lower East Side she's never been before--but warmth blooms in her chest as she gathers her clothes, her shoes, her purse. She takes deep breaths as she leaves, not daring to risk a glance back at the blissfully ignorant man asleep in her bed. 

She changes her clothes in the bathroom down the hall, leaving her conservative cotton nightgown shoved deep inside the cupboard he never opens. Her rush out of the apartment halts for a moment in the entryway as she checks her face in the antique silver mirror he'd bought for her birthday years ago, and she stumbles in shock at what she sees.  
Or rather, what she doesn’t:

Remorse.

There's no guilt in her eyes, only electric anticipation. When all this began, she saw shame reflected in her eyes every night she left him alone in their bed. She can't remember when that changed. And she doesn't care anymore, because she's finally found happiness.

She runs her fingers through her dark red hair, tousling it into waves that she hopes read as sexy and effortless and shuts the door with an intentional click behind her.

The ornate bronze clock in the lobby reads 11:15 as she leaves, giving the doorman a friendly smile. It's always so easy for her to smile on these nights, and she's forgotten how good it feels.

She hails a cab and hops inside to escape the sharp sprinkling of rain beginning to shower the streets of Manhattan.

 

The cab drops her off in front of a bar, and in the few steps it takes her to reach the door, her hair is plastered against her in dripping tendrils.

Not quite the look she was going for.

A little bell jingles as she steps inside, usual for a bar, but sweet, even quaint, all the same. Much like the person she's meeting here. There's a kaleidoscope of band posters and vinyl records from the 80s practically layered on the dark walls, a veritable collage of Erin's childhood. The light is colorful too, glowing from an eclectic collection of hanging lamps. It's a quirky, and apparently well-loved, spot with letters and photographs pinned to the painted corkboard behind the expensively stocked bar. 

But Erin isn't here for the lights or the music or the drinks.

She's here for the bartender.

A mass of blonde curls that’s scarcely tamed by a handful of pins, a weakening elastic, and a pair of yellow-tinted glasses. A pair of toned arms are displayed by a pale blue crop top, and ragged black jeans that cling to her hips like a second skin. Her back is turned to Erin, presumably working on another customer’s order, but Erin’s heartbeat is already racing as she settles gracefully on a stool, arranging her hands on the edge of the bar.

“Excuse me, could I get a glass of scotch? Neat?”

The girl behind the bar spins around, and all the air rushes from Erin's lungs.

God, she'd forgotten how blue Jillian’s eyes are.

 

They leave together at midnight.

Jillian grabs her hand and pulls her through the cluttered backroom, calling out a goodbye and goodnight to an older man named Jerry who’s sitting at a card table in the alley with a cigarette and a well-worn copy of “Great Expectations”. He smiles and waves as they climb onto Holtz’s bike and shoot off into the night, Erin's arms wrapped tightly around Jillian’s waist, her face tucked cozily against Jillian’s shoulder.

She smells of alcohol and engine grease and lemons and home.

Jillian’s apartment is a just few blocks away, and they weave through cars, speeding through the streets. If she was with anyone else, Erin would’ve been terrified, but the cool night air is on her cheeks, and she feels the most free she's ever felt, maybe in her entire life.

They can hardly keep their hands off each other, and Jillian fumbles with the keys because Erin's embrace is so impatient, and her touches are full of promise. They fall into the apartment the instant the door opens, and Erin can barely be bothered to kick it closed behind them.


	2. stay here, honey, i don't wanna share

Phil is out of town for the week.

Holtz refuses, even in her head, to refer to him as Erin's husband. Because she knows the meaning of the word and that it hasn't applied to Phil for a long time, if ever.

She knows that Erin doesn't love him. That’s why she has no problem loving a married woman.

So she moves in with Erin for the week. Her apartment is tiny and cluttered and there are, of course, the chinchillas. They always make do, seeing as all they really need is a bed and each other, but compared to the chaos of Holtz’s home, the expensive two floor suite on the Upper West Side is so luxurious and full of light, and it's the kind of space Erin deserves.

She doesn't bring much with her: a toothbrush, a few changes of clothes stuffed into a bag of inconspicuous size, and a small puzzle-box control center for one of her craziest inventions yet. When she arrives, Erin tries to brush it off, saying that she should bring whatever she wants, that she wants her to be comfortable, but Holtz can tell she's relieved. The less she packs, the easier it will be to hide it all if something goes wrong.

It stings a little; how terrified Erin is that they'll be caught, when they both know Phil was never what she wanted. After two years of this, of them, Holtz no longer understands what’s tethering Erin's to this life.

It holds no appeal in Holtz’s eyes. There's no science, no friends, no love. There's hardly even anything to do, since she isn't working.

Holtz finds it difficult to dwell on the negatives of Erin's secluded life, though, when she has her all to herself for seven whole days.

They spend the first two days mostly in bed, making up for lost time. They prepare meals together, dancing around the kitchen together with the radio humming in the background, and both of them are shocked by how easy it is, as if they've lived this way all their lives. She shouldn't be surprised, Holtz muses as Erin pulls pin after pin from her hair one mellow afternoon. They've always been practically seamless.

On day three, Holtz finds a pile of old boardgames under a stack of neatly folded white towels in the hallway linen closet. Erin laughs when Holtz dumps them in her lap. It's been so long she'd forgotten she still had them. And just like that, Holtz is setting up the first game--Scrabble--in the rumpled sheets between them, her shower utterly abandoned. They play all day, and Erin feels like a kid again watching Holtz scrutinize the board before each move as if the fate of the world is at stake.

That feeling remains as they move into the kitchen and play chess sitting on the counter, eating Holtz’s haphazardly crafted grilled cheese sandwiches. Erin smiles at her and something warm rises in Holtz’s chest. It’s pride, it’s happiness, bubbling up into her throat until she can feel it prickling bittersweet at the corners of her eyes. Then Erin leans over the board and kisses her.

Two years and every kiss still feels like a tidal wave, a solar flare, a supernova.

“Checkmate.”

 

Holtz has slept with a lot of women.

She's not ashamed of that, never has been, but she's never truly fallen in love before. Not this fast and certainly not this hard. Falling in love with Erin has made her wonder if she has ever really wanted anyone else.

 

It's their fifth night together.

Usually, since she's more experienced, Holtz is the giver in bed, but tonight Erin is on fire. Dark red hair is tangled in Holtz’s fingers while Erin buries her dreams, her worries, but most importantly her mouth between Holtz’s snowy thighs.

Usually, Holtz is a quiet lover, and Erin is only directed by a slight change in the speed of her breath, by feather-light fingertips brushing against her skin. But tonight, Holtz is an animal. Her moans are heavy and thick, her whimpers desperate and pleading, and Erin glimpses what she might be like, given freedom from fear.

With him gone, there's such little risk to this. It feels so innocent, even as Holtz’s spine arches, her whole body shaking as she cries out Erin's name.

Afterward, Holtz is curled into Erin, almost asleep with her cheek nestled into the hollow of Erin's neck, and she can't help herself.

“I love you.”

Her voice is soft and muddled with sleep, and Erin's heart stops.  
But only for a moment.  
The craziest part is that it doesn't feel wrong. It isn’t a confession. It isn't earth-shattering. There's no unspoken promise that's been broken. It's just what's real and true and how can that be anything but right?

Erin softly whispers it back.

And there's a noise downstairs.

Both of them freeze. Panicked gray eyes snap to crystal blue, suddenly wide awake. They can hear someone shuffling around in the dark, blessedly not approaching the bedroom. Yet.

Erin takes a shaky breath and kisses the top of Holtz’s head. Then she shifts out from under the younger woman, squeezing her hand gently. Holtz tries to follow, crawling toward the edge of the bed and pulling a t-shirt on as she goes, but Erin shakes her head.

“Stay.”

So Holtz stays.  
She stays, kneeling in the middle of the bed that isn't hers, her tiny frame drowned by the t-shirt that feels a hundred sizes too big, blonde curls tumbling wildly over her shoulders. This is the way Erin wants to remember her if this is their last moment of peace, the calm before the inevitable storm.

The person downstairs bumps into the couch where it’d been pushed out of the way for their game of Twister two days ago and swears. Erin bites her lip, but Holtz just winks, and Erin closes the bedroom door quietly behind her.

Once Erin's left, Holtz begins packing. It's a distraction, something to keep the anxious bile out of her throat. That, and it will make it easier to run. She hums weakly under her breath as she works in an attempt to drown out the hushed conversation outside that she can just barely hear.

He doesn’t sound angry, and Holtz can't decide whether or not she should be relieved. On the one hand, maybe he understands. Maybe he feels the same way, and maybe he'll just let Erin go, let her pack up her things and leave this life behind. Maybe everything will be okay.  
On the other hand, shouldn't he be upset? He married Erin, he had the chance to love the most wonderful woman in the world--nevermind Holtz’s slight bias--and he blew it. He's had his heart broken. Shouldn't he be mad? Holtz knows she would be.

Or maybe he never felt anything for Erin. Maybe he gave up already. Maybe he just doesn't care anymore.

Just the thought makes Holtzmann angry.

She'll hate herself for it later, but in that moment the only thing Holtz can do is run out and confront the son of a bitch who made Erin miserable for so long, who left her to the lonely, loveless existence she'd suffered through alone before Holtz met her. She has to give him a piece of her mind. She needs him to understand what he's missing. So she bursts out of the bedroom onto the glass landing overlooking the rest of the suite, some wild vision of victory alight in her mind’s eye.

She is met by two very startled pairs of eyes. Erin is standing in the living room with a small woman in a maroon uniform, and Holtz’s stomach drops.

Erin's voice is tight when she breaks the silence. “Thank you, Millie.”

She presses a few green bills into the woman's hand, and, with a vaguely judgemental look at Holtz, ‘Millie’ leaves.

Erin doesn't look at her as she locks the front door soundly and trudges up the staircase. She looks tired. She walks back into the bedroom and flops down on the bed, facedown in the white sheets with their ridiculously high thread count. Holtz follows with her eyes on her toes, her steps light, almost fearful. Erin is sprawled across the bed, and Holtz has a sinking feeling that she's in trouble, so she opts to sit on the floor. 

After a few minutes that feel like a lifetime, Erin rolls over. Holtz doesn't know if the tension in her body is fear or hope. Maybe a bit of both.

“We can't do this anymore. We can't keep living like this,” Erin says to the off-white ceiling.

Holtz can't help the break in her voice. “What do you mean?”

“Living in fear. It has to end. This has to end.”

Holtz tries, she really does, to keep it together.

“Gotcha.” 

She knew packing up was a good plan, but she had hoped she'd be running away with Erin, not from her. But Erin has spoken. She’s made her decision, maybe the one she knew she’d make all along. So she grabs her bag off the floor and runs.

Out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and she gets as far as the door when Erin catches up with her. And Holtz can feel her hands on her shoulders, and she can hear echoes of her voice but the roaring in her ears is too loud to understand what she's saying. All she knows is she can't hold herself together anymore, but Erin is there and maybe everything will be okay.


	3. is it too soon to do this yet?

The screaming echoes in her ears lull, and she can hear someone crying. She looks up, but Erin's eyes are filled with concern, not tears. Then Erin is running a tissue over Holtz’s wet cheeks, and the realization just makes her cry harder. So Erin lays them down on the couch, waiting for the tears to slow, for the sobs to mellow. They lie there in each other's arms until they're both fast asleep.

 

Holtz wakes up alone. A fluffy white blanket is tucked around her. The clock on the wall across from her reads somewhere around 10:00. That the clock is analog is just so adorably Erin.

She sits up and is greeted by a crap ton of sunshine. The windows are open, which is odd for October in New York, and there's enough of a chill in the air that Holtz brings the blanket with her to look for Erin, draping it over her shoulders so it drags on the floor behind her like a cape.

Erin, as it happens, is deep inside her closet. She's tossing high-heeled shoes over her shoulders into two piles and talking to herself, and Holtz narrowly avoids getting hit by a pair.

“Well, good morning to you, too!” Holtz yelps, diving to Erin's side for safety.

Erin grins, welcoming the fluffy hug attack, and soon they're both wrapped in the blanket, rolling around on the floor and laughing. They roll into the wall and finally stop, and Holtz leans up to nuzzle Erin's nose.

“So… we’re okay?” She asks tentatively. 

Erin kisses her again and again and again.

“Of course we're okay. I can't believe you thought I meant…” Erin's smile fades. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--”

“I know.”

Holtz picks up a spangled blue shoe. “So…?”

“So, I meant what I said last night. It's time for this to end.” She gestures to the two suitcases that are lying open and already overstuffed on the bed. “I'm trying to look at it like a challenge: pack fifteen years of Erin Gilbert’s life into three suitcases in one day.”

She looks at Holtz.  
“You think I can do it?”

“Not on your own,” Holtz smirks, tying her hair back into a messy ponytail. She springs up from the floor, mischief in her eyes. “Last one out of here's a rotten egg!”

 

Erin is the last one out, but Holtz revokes her ‘rotten egg’ ultimatum with the simple, logically sound statement that no egg, rotten or otherwise, could ever be as gorgeous as Erin.

She's the last one out because she's leaving a note for Phil. After everything of hers is packed up, she and Holtz debate whether or not to leave one but ultimately Erin feels that it's only right. Holtz volunteers to take Erin's suitcases down to the street, giving her a quiet moment to say goodbye.

Erin takes her time, says everything she needs to say, everything she needs him to know. She'll send him the proper paperwork when he's ready.

When she's ready.

She'll be fine. She's got job interview next week to teach physics at Princeton, her alma mater. She'll look for a bigger apartment in the meantime, for her and Holtz. She doesn't feel fragile anymore, and she wonders why she didn't leave him years ago, when she knew their marriage was no longer salvageable. Why she hadn't left when she met Jillian.

As she folds up her letter, she supposes it doesn't matter. She figured it out eventually. They'll be happier apart. She doesn't have to pretend, doesn't have to fight anymore. She can just be herself and be in love and be okay.

 

Holtz is waiting for her.

They both grab a suitcase in each hand and run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I've got a couple of pieces that will be ready soon, so let me know if you'd like to see more by dropping a comment if you're so inclined. Have a lovely day/night/commute/procrastinatory fic binge/etc., get some sleep, and remember to hydrate, kids. :)
> 
> Love, Ruby


End file.
